Getting Lucky
by Disgruntled the 8th dwarf
Summary: Punctuality has never been a particular strength of Taichi's, but, honestly, of all the days to be late! Yamato doesn't care if it makes him pathetic, there's no way he's going on stage like *this* without some moral support. Implied shounen-ai, Taito.


I haven't posted anything here in a looong time, but I thought I'd share this, considering the slow, painful death my fandom appears to be dying. *cries* This fic was originally written for a prompt challenge on the odd50out community on livejournal; the prompt is #30 – Missing in Action.

**Warnings**: This fic contains homosexual references, swearing, and references to mature themes. If you can't handle that, simple, don't read it.

**Disclaimer:** Digimon and all recognizable characters herein are property of their creators; no copywrite infringement is intended.

Feedback and CC are always appreciated, even if it is just a "Hey, I read it."

So, without further ado…

**Getting Lucky**

When Taichi had said, in that gung-ho tone of his, that he would, "definitely be there," Yamato had naturally, and apparently erroneously, assumed that his best friend had meant that he would "definitely be there _prior_ to the time at which the concert began." After all, he had asked the brunet to keep him company while he, as Taichi so flatteringly put it, "got beautiful."

Yamato rolled his eyes exasperatedly and ran tense fingers through his immaculately styled hair, not that it made any difference; the stylist had probably been aiming for seductively disheveled, but after having his butt fall asleep three quarters of an hour into the woman's fiddling, Yamato was rather exasperated to see that his hair looked quite the same as it had when he'd rolled out of bed that morning.

Takanawa _sama_ was in the process of re-inventing him again; trying to "shake up that clean-cut, schoolboy image a titch." Yamato sighed; it was just as well that "titch" wasn't a real word because, if it were, he would really have to object to it being used in the context of what he was now wearing.

The blonde tugged self-consciously at the tight, navy, sleeveless, satin top, in a futile attempt to cover his midriff, which _might_ have been possible if only the tight leather pants they'd put him in began above the hip bone. Yamato yanked on the belts slung at an angle, crisscrossing low on his hips, trying to get them to cover some of the exposed skin, but was largely unsuccessful; he had no idea what purpose they were supposed to serve, but it certainly wasn't holding his pants up--dragging them down maybe? 'Didn't explain the straps around his neck or left bicep though.

Staring at himself in the full-length dressing room mirror, Yamato couldn't help but wonder why not looking like a clean-cut school boy precipitated wearing clothing that made him look like a cross between a slutty gay club kid and a slutty gay vampire. He had _glitter_ in his _hair_ for fucks sake! The guys were going to rag him about this for the rest of his _life_.

"I am _not_ going to school tomorrow." He stated resolutely, making a face. "I wonder if Gackt ever feels this stupid?" _Probably not, but then Gackt doesn't have to walk into math class the morning after a concert to poorly suppressed snickers and sexual innuendo, does he?_ The blonde thought disdainfully.

God, the glitter wasn't going to come out easily either; he was contemplating switching schools at this point.

The door behind him swung open; Yamato brightened, dour disposition receding, and turned, ready with a caustic comment about his best friend's tardiness. Takaishi poked his auburn head in; Yamato's dour disposition returned with a vengeance.

"Ho shit!" Takaishi barked out as he spotted Yamato.

Yamato glared at the other man when his icy blue eyes met the laughing instrumentalist's mirth-filled hazel in the mirror. "Go fuck yourself Monou."

Takaishi grinned, stepping into the room. Yamato noted that _he_ was wearing slim black trousers and a red silk button-down.

"Kinky! Ball-gag and a pair of handcuffs, and you'll have the look down pat Ishida."

The blond turned to face his friend, brushing irritably at his sparkly bangs. "Shut up Takaishi, it's not like I picked it out."

Takaishi shrugged, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, _the bastard_, "Takanawa san has it in for you man. I'm so fucking glad she doesn't like me."

Yamato turned back to the mirror and leaned in close to examine the thin lines of kohl framing each almond-shaped eye, "She doesn't like me; look at what she's got me wearing!"

Takaishi cocked his head to the side, considering the boy in front of him, "The girls'll go nuts for it though."

Yamato snorted with derision, "Which is, hands down, worth the price of my self-respect." He replied sarcastically.

Takaishi laughed and waggled his eyebrows ridiculously, "Depends on the girl now doesn't it?"

Yamato's reflection gave him a flat look, "No." He again tried unsuccessfully to tug the tank a few inches down his torso, "I feel _beyond_ stupid in this."

Takaishi's lips quirked up in a smirk, "You look beyond stupid in it," Yamato shot him a nasty look, "but you pull it off a hell of a lot better than any other guy I know would."

The taller boy rubbed at the back of his neck, seemingly casual; something he only did when he was attempting to say something serious, "It's not that you look bad," he gestured vaguely towards the blond, "like that. It's the industry, you know?"

Yamato assumed the question was rhetorical. Yes, he did know; evidenced by the fact that he was about to go on stage, in front of thousands of screaming fans, wearing fetish clothing. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Takaishi rubbed the back of his neck once again before dropping his arm to his side, "I'm just not used to seeing you look so-"

_much like a faggot?_ Yamato thought darkly, though he didn't say it out loud.

"-rock and roll." His band mate finished with a wide grin.

The blond crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall beside the mirror, somehow managing to look casual instead of uncomfortable. Takaishi was an ass, but he was a loveable ass, and Yamato did feel a bit better—less like puking anyway.

"So, what image are you supposed to be cultivating with this look?"

The paler boy tossed a wry glance over his shoulder at his reflection, "Hm, huge tool and part time male dancer. Who knows; thankfully, I have no idea what Takanawa san's thinking most of the time."

"You mean when she's not thinking about money right?"

Yamato nodded, "Yeah."

Takaishi's gaze travelled over Yamato's body, his shrewdly amused hazel eyes catching on areas of exposed skin and the slinky silver chains overlaying black leather around the vocalist's neck.

Their eyes met, and Takaishi raise a thick brown brow, smirking, "My guess: how to make more of it off your scrawny white ass."

Yamato nodded again "Yeah, I'd believe that." he deadpanned.

Yamato turned back to the mirror and scratched at a fleck of glitter that was stuck to his cheek; he was _so_ looking forward to the oh-so-clever comments about "fairy" dust. The blonde grimaced just thinking about it.

"I want to play '_Dekiru na_' to close the second set; you'll still have time to retune?"

Takaishi nodded, "Shouldn't be a problem. I've gotta make sure my shit's all together in the wings though, so I can grab and go, otherwise it might be."

"Aa," Yamato mumbled, still trying to remove the offending bits of glitter without scratching his face raw. "Oh." he snapped up straight, and again turned to face the other, "Hey Takaishi kun, have you seen Taichi?

The auburn-haired man cast a confused look around the room, as if only just realizing the tanned brunet was missing and expecting to find him sitting unobtrusively in a corner. One side of Yamato's mouth twitched: Taichi didn't know what unobtrusive meant, he was obtrusive when he _slept_.

"Sorry man, I figured he was already here."

Yamato's perfect eyebrows drew together and he shrugged sharply, irritated that the brunet wasn't wandering the venue's backstage hallways, and equally irritated that he cared one way or the other. They stared at each other; questions that Yamato couldn't, wasn't prepared to, answer reflected in Takaishi's hazel eyes, and the blond's face growing steadily warmer.

Takaishi was the first to break eye contact. "Right, so we'll end the second set with '_Dekiru na_'." He said awkwardly, "I'd better tell the others, so we don't throw them a curveball." The tall, lanky musician headed for the door, "Nice nail polish by the way; I think my sister has the same colour."

The teasing tone was back, and only a little of the awkwardness remained. Takaishi glanced down at his watch, "Anyway, we're on in ten, so muster what little dignity you have left and get your ass backstage, k?"

Yamato rolled his eyes, but inside he was grateful for his bandmate's jibes, "Yeah, well, I stole it out of her bedroom while I was visiting your mom; I'll be out in a minute."

Takaishi laughed, and his grin was genuine as he tossed a casual wave over his shoulder before stepping into the hallway, shutting the door behind him, and leaving Yamato without anything to distract him from his thoughts.

Right, so ten minutes. He had ten minutes until a thousand screaming fangirls saw him dressed like a super slut. Yamato ran tensed fingers through his hair and cursed when he realized he'd dislodged more of the glitter, which was drifting down to cling like some bizarre sparkly lichen to his bare shoulders. God, he wished he could laugh about this, he really did. He would beat his bandmates and friends for laughing at him tomorrow, but he couldn't blame them really; he would laugh at the incongruity of seeing one of his friends dressed like this too. But, it wasn't one of his friends, it was Yamato, and it was decidedly _not_ funny.

He scrutinized his reflection as he first crossed his arms loosely over his chest then uncrossed them to place a hand on a cocked hip, the other hanging loosely at his side, trying to adopt a posture and expression that belied the revealing outfit and his discomfort at wearing it. He almost managed it; almost managed to look like the cool, seductive Ishida Yamato that his bitch of a manager wanted him to be--the cool, seductive Ishida Yamato so many of the fangirls saw when they looked at him in the glossy pages of their magazines. And, that did it; he was back to scowling and worrying his bottom lip between straight white teeth.

"Oh God!" he moaned despairingly, slumping forward with hands pressed to the sides of his face, eyes screwed shut.

He couldn't do this. Fuck, he couldn't _do_ this! He wished Takaishi would come back and laugh at him again so he could be glad that _someone_ found the situation humourous.

Yamato tried to breathe deeply; he felt so dumb freaking out about something as insignificant as a tight pair of trousers when he knew perfectly well that it was essentially part of his job description that he play dress-up in stuff like he was currently wearing. It didn't seem to matter to his nerves though, he didn't want to wear it, occupational hazard or not. And, it wasn't even the clothes really; Yamato was no shrinking violet, but he felt so _exposed_, like he could read the thoughts going through people's heads when they looked at him like this: _sellout, pervert, try-hard_. People _assuming_ things about him based on an outfit worn under duress at a concert once and picked out by his manager. He didn't have much choice though. _No,_ _the show must go on_, he thought acerbically. He just wished that Taichi were here.

Sure, Tai would tease the blond mercilessly, but he wouldn't be cruel, intentionally or otherwise. Taichi was often oblivious of other people's feelings, but he _knew_ Yamato, oftentimes, the blond thought, better than he knew himself, and after all these years of friendship he knew Yamato's buttons and when not to push. Taichi would be amused, but he'd be supportive; likely say something guilelessly sweet about how anyone who was rude to Yamato at school tomorrow had likely had to listen to his girlfriend wax poetic about Yamato's hotness at length following the concert instead of getting laid.

Taichi just had a way of making him feel better. Which, of course, begged the question: where the hell was Taichi?! He couldn't go on without seeing him, could he? Tai was _always_ there to wish him luck before a show. Yamato loved music, and he loved performing: Being on stage rivaled any situation he had encountered in the Digital World in terms of sheer adrenaline, and didn't carry with it the added risk of his own grisly demise, or that of his loved ones, but he was fucked if he went out there without a clear head.

Yamato glanced nervously at the analogue wall clock and wrung his hands; seven minutes. _Damn it, Taichi!_ He needed to be able to focus on the music, and he didn't think he could do that today without the reassurance of their established routine. Yamato cast another glance at his reflection, startled to note that he was pouting in a way that, in combination with the clothes, made him look very sluttish indeed. He wiped the expression from his face and resolved to never allow it to surface ever again. He still looked dumb as all get out, but at least he didn't look wanton.

Yamato exhaled a huff of air, considering his reflection; Takaishi was right, it wasn't as if he looked horrible in the clothes. He _could_ see himself objectively. The boy in the mirror was sleek, and slender, and very well proportioned, and the clothes fit him like a second skin, but he still felt cheap dressed like this. Disassociating himself from the blond staring back at him only made him feel embarrassed for his doppelganger, rather than for himself. He had to pull himself together though. Taichi was likely stuck in traffic or something, but he'd be there; maybe not on time, but, if he could be, he would be, and it wouldn't do to let on how bothered he was by the brunet's absence. Taichi picked up on his moods from a mile away; although he was hardly adept at reading other people, and the vocalist didn't think he was all that transparent. It came from being so close with another person he supposed, that and finishing each other's sentences.

Yamato took a deep breath in through his nose and slowly blew it out through his mouth, steadying himself. He locked eyes with the boy in the mirror, and he smoothed his hands all the way down his front to his thighs, rubbing them vigorously on the leather to dispel sweat and nervousness.

"You can do this." He murmured to himself, "You can do this!"

He stepped away from the mirror and strode over to the far side of the room to retrieve his bass guitar. Yamato pulled the instrument from its case and ran a hand lovingly over the frets; the other instruments were already on stage, but he would walk on with his: it was a source of strength for him, and it kept him grounded when he stepped out onto the stage to the suddenly intensified cacophony of thousands of screaming fans.

Yamato exhaled again to dissipate the building tightness in his chest, "Here we go."

Slinging his guitar strap around his neck and resting the instrument against his hip, he got to his feet. He stood staring down, unresolved, eyes unfocused, at the empty case for almost a minute, and then he turned, strode back across the room, and, firmly gripping the metal knob in his left hand, opened the door.

A short, barely audible, buzzing noise coming from the makeup table, from his knapsack, registered over the at once exhilarating and nerve-wracking distance-dampened excitement of the crowd.

Yamato paused in the doorway, internally debating. He turned his head to the side, staring at the wall, but otherwise frozen in place. The buzzing sounded again, and Yamato bit his bottom lip; still, he remained rooted to the spot. His backpack buzzed again, and Yamato didn't even register the decision to move before he was across the room, pulling the cell phone from his bag.

It had stopped vibrating as he'd wrapped his fingers around its cool plastic casing, and now it was silent. He held it there, in his hand; for a moment, the crowd noises travelling down the hallway seemed impossibly loud in his ears, and the tight clothing seemed to restrict his breathing, and then he flipped the phone open.

One text message--from Taichi. He pressed enter, and the message popped up onto the screen; the rock star felt the grin creep across his face, all the nervous tension in his body dissipating and leaving only the excitement that was always there before a show.

He read the message aloud: "Good luck Yamato!" Yamato laughed.


End file.
